“Fulk Lechester—Lady Agnes’ cousin! Ah! I have heard of you,” said Aymer. “You were very clever, and you went—well, I mean—” “Ha! ha! ha! I will convince you that I am as sane as yourself—saner; for what a goose you were to be so easily trapped.” “So I certainly was.” “Would you like to get out? Of course. So should I. Let me see. First, I have seen you—your physiognomy is good; next, I have read of your book, for I see the papers; thirdly, I knew your father, at least I knew all about his career; fourthly, you come from World’s End, and that is my neighbourhood; fifthly, you are young; sixthly, you are in love, which is a strong stimulus to exertion. Yes, you will do. Now eat your dinner; you must get strong.” “I will not touch it till I see you. I will tear the picture down.” “Oh, rash, headstrong! Lift it up instead.” Aymer tried. “I can’t,” he said. “No, because I have fixed it. Now try.” The picture lifted easily, and Aymer was face to face with the stranger. He saw a little man, a head and a half shorter than himself, elegantly made, and dressed in the fashion. His brow was very broad and high, his eyes dark and large, deeply set; his lips perfect. He had a small moustache but no beard or whiskers. His complexion was the worst part of his appearance; it was almost yellow. Fulk smiled, and showed good teeth. “I am yellow, I know,” he said. “So would you be if you had not been out of doors for two years. I look forty, I know; I am really just thirty-three. Nipped in the bud. Ha! ha! However, there is no time to waste—the warder will return. Eat your dinner. Let us shake hands.” Aymer readily extended his hand. Suddenly he said— “How do I know that this is not a new trap?” Fulk smiled sadly. “A week ago you believed everybody,” he said; “now you run to the other extreme. That is youth. I am young; but I am also old. Trouble makes men old, thought perhaps still older. For seven years I have done nothing but think.” “For seven years!” echoed Aymer, in horror. “Have you been here seven years?” “Yes; I was then twenty-six, now I am thirty-three. Ah! I blossomed too fast. It is a bad sign, friend Aymer, when life is all roses too early; the frosts are sure to come.” “True,” said Aymer, thinking of his wedding-day, so strangely, so dreadfully interrupted. “I was a Secretary of State at twenty-six. I had everything—money, youth, power, a career, a loving wife. A few hours changed it.” “May I ask, how?”